Justice Hunter (34 page)
F
or an administrative hearing, typically blander than brown rice, the legal skills were nothing short of electrifying. Vito’s first chair was a buxom blonde with remarkable cleavage who singlehandedly could obliterate the logic of dumb blonde jokes. Her words were strong, passionate, and sensible. Her opening, really more of a peroration, was starting to heat up. The crowd was spellbound, especially the men, seemingly awe-struck by the idea that such cogent arguments could emanate from lips more well-suited for less academic endeavors.
“Vito Armani should be heralded, not villainized. His ideologies have been trampled on, treated like a mangy stray. The appalling irony in all this is that we all sit just a cobblestone or two away from the birthplace of our nation’s independence. Apparently we’ve all forgotten the great debt we owe these founding fathers—those who took a stand against tyrannical British rule and said enough is enough. They were willing to die rather than continue living without political freedom or societal influence, meant to serve cruel masters, leading an existence of absolute hypocrisy. They are depriving the people, you,” she continued passionately as she gestured toward the crowd, “of the freedoms some of us have taken for granted: political freedom, religious freedom, freedom of speech—these constitutionally protected freedoms, which have never seemed more elusive as I stand here and observe the mockery of justice this fine city’s leaders have managed to make.
“What kind of government condemns one of its greatest citizens, one who would literally give the shirt off his own back to one in need? This is a man whose altruism has largely gone unnoticed, someone who has subsidized this city’s underfunded schools, police stations, fire houses, someone who has clothed thousands of underprivileged children, given them toys over Christmas when no one else bothered to care. And how do we repay him for having a constitutionally protected point of view? We put him on trial, deprive him of due process, and portray him as a monster.”
The lawyer looked to her side, making eye contact with Vito Armani, who was sitting there stoically. Dark circles under his eyes were the hallmark of a workaholic with unwavering commitment to his business, his employees, and their families. This was a man who had singlehandedly created something remarkable from nothing, something permanent, a fixture in the Philadelphia landscape, a landmark with international recognition. Photoflashes went off sporadically, capturing the image of a man with the courage to take a stand, however controversial.
“We should be applauding this man, not putting him on trial like a savage murderer. There sits a visionary, a man with the fortitude to endure the pain coming out of this witch hunt, to continue on in the face of adversity, never yielding, never ceding to the idle threats of those who sought to silence him. Fining him, threatening to shut him down, shut him up once and for all. This is a thoughtful, conscientious human being who never dared deny service to anyone. Let’s get that straight right now! You may hear evidence to the contrary, but I can assure you there’s a lot more to the story.
“It involved a melee my client was forced to suppress with someone who’d been clinically diagnosed with an alcohol addiction—someone who lost control and was putting other patrons at risk, including children and the elderly. The fact that he happened to be Hispanic was of no consequence—none whatsoever. The insinuation is frankly defamatory. My client had to make a quick decision, just like any other restaurant operator or merchant forced to intervene for the safety of the other customers. And in hindsight, he would’ve done precisely the same thing. If that equates to discrimination, then we desperately need to pass a constitutional amendment to make the drunk and disorderly a protected class.” Laughter and cheering spread throughout the room.
“There is much more to this story, as I alluded to, and you should listen carefully. I implore you to listen carefully, hear the truth for yourself, just as I am confident this honorable panel will,” she added, deliberately looking at each of the three commissioners.
It was less an act of deference than a veiled threat. They were in the hot seat. The youngest of the three squirmed nervously. Another concealed his face with his hand, hiding the assuredly harried expression. “I regret to tell you that there’s something much more insidious here, something—and I dare say it—political. Who would’ve thunk it? Who would’ve ever suspected that politicking and residual corruption could ever infiltrate the tiny little world of a humble pizza maker? Call me naïve, but it seems almost incredible to me that the law can be exploited for political gain this way—that those who call themselves leaders in this fine city have the gall to distort the truth to further their own political agendas at anyone’s expense. Today it is Mr. Armani. Tomorrow it might be you, sir,” she said, pointing a fake red nail into the audience, “or you, sir, or you, ma’am. We’re all in trouble if we sit idly by and condone the deplorable conduct of the commission, passively watching as the spirit of a hero, a modern-day Horatio Alger, is spit on, beaten down, and bludgeoned to death.” After a dramatic pause, the lawyer meandered into less-exciting territory, the nitty-gritty, the unconstitutionality of the ordinance itself, the procedural history of the case.
As he stood there pensively, Hunter couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to his dad, already dead for the better part of a decade. His grandparents, Holocaust survivors, had fled Bergen-Belsen in Germany and immigrated to Illinois, where they managed to make a humble life for themselves. Hunter looked on as a spectator, wedged between a hotheaded adolescent assuredly from South Philly and a plus-size Hispanic woman, who was sweating profusely and emitting a pungent body odor. It was a rivalry sandwich of sorts, and he was the meat.
His dad used to talk about exotic places he would read about and only dream of getting to one day, like Tokyo, Japan, where the commuter trains became so full that the people were accustomed to literally being stuffed into the cars just so the doors could shut. As a kid, enraptured by these wondrous descriptions of foreign cultures and locales, he remembered his desire to send his parents, to give them the gift of something they could never afford to do: travel. After all, once he got old enough, he was going to be the next Pelé or Maradona, the soccer legends whose pictures used to adorn the walls of his bedroom. He’d be rich and famous just like them, the pride of his country and an athlete whose name would be remembered long after he had left this earth.
Aside from covering airfare to places like Florida for his mom and her sixtieth birthday present, a cruise aboard one of those obscenely large luxury ships, he never really had the chance to do it. Taking an unexpected turn, he received a sign, the career-ending injury that forced him to figure out what he wanted to do with his life when he grew up. He recalled his friends trying to persuade him to become a sports agent like Jerry Maguire. But he knew that wasn’t for him. The thought of making deals for other athletes and only being capable of playing vicariously through them just didn’t sit right with him. It would be a profession that constantly reminded him of what he could’ve been but never would be. He supposed he was just too immature at the time to realize that his passion for sports and ability to do something, anything, where it could be applied might actually be meaningful. He could’ve been a catalyst for change even, cutting bigger and bigger deals for up-and-coming soccer players and achieving a newfound respect for a sport that for so long had been dismissed by the American public as being too European or not compelling enough for mass consumption.
If his dad were watching over him, what would he have to say? What would his advice be? There he stood with his fallback career in shambles, likely a suspect in the murder of one of the city’s most prominent judges. And all he could do was join the crowd as the lawyers dazzled the audience with their legal acumen in the face of a debate boiling down to how the law could be distorted to the point of intolerance actually having a fighting chance of winning the day.
Due process gone haywire.
Esoteric legal arguments were trumping equality, mocking it with the very rules designed to curb disparate treatment. Maybe his friends were right. Sometimes, as Dillon always said, “the most obvious answer is the right one.” If Hunter had listened to what he now knew to be sage advice, would he have been any happier, more fulfilled? It’s human nature to overcomplicate things, to find ways of talking oneself out of things. In that way, despite his desire to believe that he was a man of his instincts, perhaps he was no different from everyone else. Maybe his instincts were illusory, nothing more than a substitute for the creative musings of his subconscious, all the fear and uncertainty masquerading as confidence.
Hunter, too, marveled at the ability of the lawyers on both sides. That included Mancini, who spoke as if he’d been living and breathing the case for years. But Hunter knew Mancini was making it up as he went along, relying on Hunter’s arguments blindly and focusing on getting the drama of it all right. All the world’s a stage, and Mancini wisely knew that the courtroom was no different. Delivery was everything and frequently was more important to the decision-makers than the very content itself.
“I must admit,” began Mancini. “I found Ms. Fortunato’s soliloquy quite compelling. All the bells and whistles I anticipated. Whoring out the Constitution, a document that embodies the very freedoms I am here to protect, the freedoms I too covet—those that permit you to stand before me, all different walks of life, men, women, white, black, purple, and green. A melting pot of cultural and religious differences, differences that have permitted my parents to emigrate from Italy to this great city, this great nation, and have the opportunity to make a comfortable life for themselves. Raise two children, one of them being me, who had the opportunity to go to college, then pursue a law degree, to be able to protect the very thing that paved the way: freedom. The freedom to have differing points of view, enjoy political discourse, be on the right, or the left, as the case may be, be straight, be gay, speak Chinese, Spanish, or both. To say that Mr. Armani’s sign is not a comment upon the types of people who are either welcome or not welcome is to miss the point altogether. This red herring I’ve heard so much about, this wonderful piece of fiction involving a melee, concocted to distract you, and this Honorable panel,” he scoffed, playing up to the commissioners, “is nothing more than a smoke screen. I can assure you, when the evidence is presented and the truth is revealed, you will all see how Mr. Hayek is a convenient scapegoat.”
Mancini gestured toward a nice-looking, slightly heavyset Hispanic man in the first row. He scratched his black curls nervously. “Ruben Hayek, ladies and gentlemen.” Applause peppered the crowd. “This heroic man should be applauded. That’s right,” preached Mancini, trying to sway the audience. Ruben’s dark features were flush with embarrassment. “Mr. Hayek wasn’t intoxicated that night. In fact, he’d been sober for many months, someone who’d overcome an addiction afflicting so many Americans. He was doing all the right things—a hard-working laborer just trying to make an honest living. Striving to achieve the American dream, just like my parents, or some of you, or your parents and their parents, and so forth. What’s so wrong with that?” he asked rhetorically, exuding charisma and charm.
“And to think that Mr. Hayek should have to suffer the humiliation of being denied service at a crowded restaurant. It’s hard to fathom the suffering and the pain. All we can try to do is empathize with this poor man, a man who happens to represent a different custom, a different people, a different history. And we can hope that today we can make a difference. Send a message to businesses like Mr. Armani’s,” he said, glaring at Vito Armani and pointing an accusatorial finger in his direction, “apply the law and ensure that the Ruben Hayeks of the world don’t have to suffer, don’t have to subject themselves to bigotry, racism, and discrimination in its purest and most lethal form. Mr. Armani’s lawyer, someone who herself has battled addictions…”
A hush fell over the hall, the gasps audible. Mancini had dropped a bomb, masterfully waiting as the billowing smoke of controversy filled the room.
And then, precisely what Mancini wanted so badly: “Objection! Objection!”
Mancini grinned scornfully, knowing that his adversary had played right into his hands. The objection would do little more than call attention to the fact. The expression on her face said, “I wish I could take that one back.”
“What’s the nature of the objection, counsel?” asked the chairman assertively.
“Relevancy, sir.”
Mancini’s turn. Now in for the kill. “If Ms. Fortunato’s history of alcohol addiction is irrelevant to these proceedings, especially where she belittled Mr. Hayek, condescendingly deriding him by proposing drunkenness as a protected class, then please strike it.”
Ms. Fortunato sat there, seething, running her hands through her blonde tresses. She was falling back on her beauty, what she’d learned to do so well, exploiting the reality of constantly being objectified.
“Now if Ms. Fortunato would allow me to continue with my opening,” he started in, “the same way I listened so patiently to her work of fiction. Well, I think I’ve made my point. Mr. Armani is undeniably a generous man. No one is trying to take that away from him. But money, unfortunately, cannot buy integrity. The law does not condone racism, however magnanimous the racist. It just doesn’t work that way. We do not condone racism. We cannot. To portray himself as a victim is to add insult to injury. When an apology is in order, instead we get yet more insults. Intolerable. Intolerable!” he yelled, shaking his head angrily. “And to leave up this sign, this symbol of racism, something to deter others merely because they look different, speak differently, is to flout his arrogance. No one, especially someone himself who has benefited from this great nation of ours, a nation built upon notions of tolerance and diversity, has the right to insult our intelligence like this. And I repeat: No one.” After a dramatic pause, Mancini slowly and deliberately returned to his chair. The battle had officially begun.